Halloween Sex inside a Coffin

Stian is on top of me and the way he is snogging and stroking and necking me expresses and reveals to me just how so much in love he is with me. Arghhh! I heave and buoy and hoist up my head whenever he smooches and busses and pecks and brushes my throat and chest and breasts themselves, gratifying and cheering and tickling me to the very core and hilt. I am so in love with him and all of this...I idolize and think the world of him and everything that he is doing to me right this very moment.

While he kisses and snogs and caresses me, he shifts and switches and stirs one hand to my clitoris and punani, where, once he has stroked and caressed and patted and petted it, he pokes and jabs and prods and nudges his fingers deep inside it, tickling and tantalizing and arousing me high and higher and more higher each time that he does this. Yeah. I don't want him to break off from accomplishing and performing this. I don't want him to do that. Not ever!

With my ecstatic and stoked so as to float-and-hover-high-up-in-the-air hands, I make it to his underwear and smalls so as to lug and wrench and wrest them off until I have his tool and knob and John Thomas and cojones and family jewels in my very own seize and grip and clinch. I don't clinch and clutch them painfully though. I do it all properly and nicely and beautifully in a fashion and style that does not hurt and bruise him but amuse and gratify and gladden him instead. Hell yeah. I can hearken to him whinge and groan and moan out happily and with joy and yet still be all the more punch-drunk overjoyed and chuffed still. Aren't you carping and bitching and whining along with us as well?

Our lips and mouths come across and stumble upon each other...and as that ensues, we both osculate and snog and smooch and kiss exceedingly and greatly till we have made it past the topmost nth degree. I split and disjoin and disunite my legs just in time enough for him to make an entrance and cross the threshold into me. Arghhhhh! While he gets and slumps into me steadily and at his own leisure and sweet-most lackadaisical pace, I grasp and hold on to both sides of the shut giant and titanic-resembling coffin, all on a grand scale and by leaps and bounds stoked and floating in the vast air and illimitably on cloud nine. Is this not what you call sugar and rapturous sex inside a glorious and ravishing coffin? Is this not it?

Once he is every inch and heart and soul inside of my vagina, Stian starts to blow and rump up and aerate into me, heightening and jacking and putting up more and more speed and tempo and momentum as he goes on. I am so over the moon and in seventh heaven and overjoyed and rapt about it. I genuinely and verily am. I bellow and bawl and hollo out, all the more boisterous and obstreperous and clamorous and riotous as he thrusts and bulldozes and prods and jostles into me all the more harder and faster. I am sweating like a pig ad sticking it out like no man's business. My hands ploddingly but in good time make it to his butts and hindquarters. I nab and seize and capture and entrap them like nuts and crackers. Yeah. They are fleecy and smooth as a baby's bottom indeed. So, so downy and velvety like nothing more pleasurable and delectable to pat and pet indeed. Holy goodness! I am going bananas and batty. All because of his baby smooth bottom and arse?

Arghhhh! Stian is thumping and thudding and clanging and buffeting all the hell lot faster and harder into me. I adore and cherish and treasure it so very much. Not solely does that gladdens and gives me so immensely and exceedingly a pleasure. It is as well to some small degree or extent flushing and tingling and electrifying and titillating. But the sweet-most and saccharine delectation way far high makes up for the slight and minor galvanization and rouse and thrill that I am undergoing and feeling right now, or does not it? Yeah. It hell-flames-blaze-up and come the fire and brimstone does!

As Stian shoves and bulldozes and impels and jostles his Willie deep and more deeper into me, I proceed on to clutch and snap up all the tighter and more firm his Brobdingnagian, silky like a baby's bottom, and flawlessly and impeccably curvilinear and full-fleshed bottom and bums toward myself. Yeah; I am rejoicing and reveling and delighting in this so, so, so very much unquestionably! What could be any and inexorably better than having sex and screwing and shagging and humping up each other in a goddamn and god-doomed coffin? What, huh? What methodically and literally? Make it also known to me please!

I don't frankly and sincerely know how many minutes and hours have gone past since Stian and I wrapped up and rounded off having sex in this denationalized coffin of ours in the solitude and privateness of our home. I just helplessly twinkle and wink and flutter my eyes inside the mega, gigantic, and bulky coffin itself. Not at a push or exclusively is it all this. It is ornate and lavish and ritzy too. I am pondering and asking myself and cudgeling my brains on how much it was explicitly and distinctively that my spouse and better half, Stian The Baas And Overlord himself, purchased and procured it for. How much scrupulously? I don't know...I have no scanty and express hint and inking and pointer on that; and it seems and looks like I won't ever dig up and bring that to perspicacious and hunk-dory light. Or will I?

I knit my brows and wheel and pivot my eyes. Damn Stian and his obscurity and ambiguousness and closed book! Damn him for it! I can't take a nap or slumber anymore. I peek and snatch a dekko at him. He is zizzing and resting in the arms of Morpheus well and soundly. He nailed on and ineluctable is; and I Ragnhild myself? I have just had a surefire and unfailing bad dream; a night terror in other creepy and Kafkaesque words. Hell on Earth—you may style and label it that way if you single the epithet out. Yeah. It was doubtlessly Tartarus and the bottomless pit on Earth.

For the hell of it—or hell for leather—I must have certainly yelped and squealed out. It was all spine-chilling and spooky and bloodcurdling. To see the one and only man that I loved, who is Stian without indecision or lack of conviction and irresolution, step and march towards me in a bodeful and intimidating and looming manner and course of action, until, startled and daunt-shocked, I wheeled round at full tilt and ran away from him like greased lightning and nobody's business. He raced and dashed after me as well, leaping and hopping up to a far-off wall where he began creeping and inching and worming his way after me, terrorizing and scaring the bejesus out of me. It was whilst shrieking and screeching out that I roused from my sleep and bestirred up. And there he is, sleeping and dozing off noiselessly and silently. Goodness! It is just a bad dream and nothing else more on my side and role, right? I reckon so.

Halloween is now bygone and a shred and wodge and scrap of ancient history. It ensued a week ago and now we are in the dawn of November. All frosty and wintry and freezing out there. I don't understand why; but that night hallucination of Stian putting up a fright on me and running after me while dragging and inching himself on the wall? It has stressed and worried and affrighted me like it is a piece of realism and actuality. Is it genuinely?

I don't know. I just can't let the cat out of the bag on this subject and affair. Maybe I should narrate and give an account of this to him; perhaps I should not. What must I do precisely? Will someone abet please lend me an easing and assuaging hand? Please!? I won't let Stian know as regards this. Why? I don't know precisely. But it is best if he doesn't bring this to his light and insight. Yeah...surely! I won't get this off my chest to him. No, I won't!